NationStates Jolt Archive

The iron towers of Lithlad rise from among the ash wastes like sheer mountain peaks. Spire upon spire, tower upon tower, the starscrapers climb so far into the sky they pierce the poisonous clouds. A city is to its millions of inhabitants a diverse and complete world as isolated from the surrounding wastes and adjoining towers as from deep space and the distant stars.

It is difficult to date the ages of the structures too precisely. Their very size is testament to many decades of growth, sprawling layer upon layer, climbing ever higher above Mordor’s polluted surface. They plunge as far into the Earth as they rise above it, and the deepest and oldest layers now lie far, far underground, buried by the corrosive ash that piles around the monoliths’ bases. These parts of the city were abandoned long ago, and now they are dark and dangerous places inhabited only by mutant creatures spawned by chemical pollutants, disease and madness.

Where a tower breaks the surface its broad base spans ten miles or more from edge to edge. From ground level the man-made mountains rise ever more steeply upwards. Weathered walls of metal climb through the lightning-wracked layer of undercloud; a pall of acidic dust resembling Industrial Age smog which clings to the surface of the Dark Lord’s realm like a shroud. The tower reaches skywards through ghostly shadow, until it eventually penetrates the cloud base and emerges into the hard light of the sun. At cloud top level the walls of the starscraper stand almost five miles above the ash wastes.

Above the dust layer the hive narrows into a single tall spike; a tower studded with a million lights. It stretches almost vertically above the sickly glowing cloud and reaches towards the stars; warships like engraved iron orbs tethered to its utmost heights. The spire is covered with transparent aluminium armourglass blisters of many shapes and sizes. Domes on its surface shield carefully nurtured vegetation from the thin and arid air. Slim towers break from the outer shell, palaces of massive and elegant proportions yet barely significant in comparison to the mountainous structure taken as a whole. Cantilevered balconies hundreds of metres long jut out into open space forming the base for new construction sites. Broad circular landing platforms hang from the spire walls, and higher still gaping dark holes lead to airports inside the starscraper.

Such are the towers of Lithlad, from their dark roots to their glittering tips. And in one such tower, near the very pinnacle of the colossus, a very strange meeting is taking place...

In Lithlad’s iron towers the lofty spires above the clouds are the domain of the great Houses of the Black Númenóreans and their thralls, seperated from the teeming peasantry that slaves beneath by a wall of solid steel through which only heavy gateways enable carefully controlled passage.

These beings that were once hailed as gods and saviours by lesser men are the mightiest of Sauron’s servants; ensnared by promises of power, infinite riches and life everlasting. They turned their backs on mankind and opened their hearts to the Deceiver, and for a time were content, as the Dark Lord’s black sorcery opened paths to many new abilities. The artist produced works beyond mortal comprehension. The narcissist honed his visage so that others were driven insane with desire. The warrior developed such abilities that a casual gesture could decapitate the mightiest of foes.

But the more the wheel of time turned and the more they revelled in their undying splendour, the more they came to realise that the price of their god’s favour was nothing less than eternal damnation. Drink would not satisfy; food turned to ash in their mouths; and all the pleasurable company in the world could not slake their lust. Immortality had been offered as a gift - but they came to recognize it for a curse. For thousands of years they lived, parched of thirst and unable to quench it, starving to death but unable to die.

Such unnatural long life brings to men not wisdom but insanity, minds splintering under the weight of all the accumulated knowledge of the ages; memories spilling out like wine from an overfilled chalice. Even their mortal bodies forsook them in the end, rotted by corruption, and they would be forced to possess another through some black art of the Necromancer, driven more by instinct than desire. Once compelled by their greed, now it consumed them.

Those among them who still stood as lords and champions of the Dark Lord could remember having gone mad many times. Centuries had been spent gibbering insanely or reiterating a single crazed chant. Most of the men of Númenór had already lost their souls, though. Living for countless years, bereft of happiness and unable to even think, they are shells of men, driven only by their master’s infernal will and the twisted remnants of the arrogance and malice that first drove them into the Shadow. The tower spires are impossibly luxurious and grand, yet to outsiders they are eerie places; silent as the grave, no outward signs of life’s day to day activities life despite their many denizens.

Fortunately the Arch Censor from Ermor found this not in the least discomforting, and Lord Angórë, master of the westernmost of the starcrapers that rose above Lithlad’s ash wastes, was suitably impressed by his faceless guest: clad as he was head-to-toe in black power armour, unearthly green witch-fire flickering from the seams of it and behind the creature’s fathomless eyes.

”My master Sauron the Great bids thee welcome, Caractor of Ermor.” The Númenórean greeted formally.

"You know what has brought me here," Caractor stated plainly. Angórë smiled.

”Of course, Arch Censor. You have come to discuss the fate of the colony you once maintained in Melkor’s old realm.”

If the Emorian noticed the lack of honour paid to the Dark Vala he did not show it. "Yes,” was the stentorian reply. ”The Empire does indeed wish to create a new colony within these lands, but that is not all..."

Angórë’s smile twitched a little at the corners of his cracked mouth at that.

”There is a new power rising. One we would wish you to be a part of."

"Oh?" Angórë tapped a claw-like fingernail to his chin. This was certainly interesting.

”Yes. But all this depends on whether or not you are interested in additional power. If you are not, I shall not go further into the matter. If you are... I shall.”

"His Lordship is always interested in acquiring additional power, my friend," came the sorcerer’s reply, his smile becoming wolfish. "By all means, please continue."

”As you wish”, the Arch Censor said with no emotion in his cold voice, ”Behind the scenes, there is...an alliance forming. One that will break the order forced upon this realm of existence. One that will bring back the dark into this maddeningly white room we call the Universe.”

The armour-clad emissary shifted almost imperceptibly in his high-backed chair, his tattered purple cape ruffling slightly. ”But at this moment, it is young. It needs to grow to fulfil its potential, to go forth and crush those who stand before it." The Númenórean found himself leaning in. ”As of now, from what we have seen, it is the best, strongest of its kind still standing. But it is paramount to keep it a secret from the others until we are ready - for if they found out... Surely they would attempt to force it to its death before it has a chance to stand against them and their views.”

He seemed to hesitate (if such was possible) for a heartbeat after that, before changing tack.

”...But now I am rambling. What is important has been said. Depending on whether you wish so or not, we shall - or shall not - ease your entrance into it."

The Dark Lord’s representative leaned back in his chair for a time, fingers steepled. At least he, among his kind, retained a semblance of his treacherous faculties.

"What you speak is the truth. There has been a power vacuum since old Melkor was vanquished. Nothing has arisen to fill it." He smiled to himself at that, as one with a secret is apt to do. "Everything is proceeding as His Lordship has forseen."

Angórë leant back in, and the sorcerer’s fiendish eyes held the Arch Censor’s burning gaze.

“We would be most interested in working with your organization, Arch Censor."

The green light behind the lenses of Caractor's death mask of a helmet flashed for a second. ”Excellent.”, he said. ”We shall speak with the others of this. You will be contacted regarding the matter when everything is ready.”

The Ermorian now continued, seeming to Angórë’s eyes to loosen up noticeably.

"Now, to the matter at hand. As you know, the Empire desires to rebuild its colony in a somewhat...safer location.”

"And Mordor is more than willing to accommodate you!" Angórë grinned, those cracked lips now curled fully back over his pitted teeth. He drew a slender dagger from a sheath on his forearm, and traced its blade across the length of the weathered map of Sauron’s accursed realm spread across the meeting table, finally burying in the point in a remote expanse east of Lithlad that stretched as far as the coast labelled “Eastern Desolation” in archaic characters.

”This is the area we call the Eastern Desolation." he began, smile becoming rueful. ”Habitation is sparse. It is largely barren upland; a dreary expanse of blasted earth, sand drifts and etiolated thickets, chequered with sterile fields where foolish agrarians toil out their hideously barren lives in fruitless labour and bitter want.” Angórë seemed profoundly unmoved by their plight. ”Do with them as you like.”

He looked up, some measure of insincere concern in his expression. ”This is suitable for your purposes, is it not? I am given to understand that the people of Ermor have no need of decadent surroundings."

”Yes, of course it shall be,” Caractor stated simply. ”It is perfect for our purposes." Then a momentary pause. The Arch Censor’s gauntlet reached for something out of sight beneath his cape. ”Ah, yes. My master gave me orders to give you this..." a small, golden ring emerged from his closed fist, and he placed it on the table with something approaching care, earning an arched eyebrow from his host. ”That is one of the most powerful magical items we can create. It is called 'the Ring of Wizardry', and quite rightly so. Only the best of our Dusk Elders attuned with the Arcana can even dream of forging one, and the time and resources it requires are... staggering, to say the least. While it does not turn someone who does not know magic into a force to be reckoned with, it does empower one already knowledgeable in it considerably.”

Angórë faltered a moment as he reached out for the ring, then took it and tucked it into his robes.

”That is but a humble gift, to honour your patience and good will,” continued Caractor’s steady voice. ”Is there something you would wish for the land you are granting us?"

Angórë shook his head slightly, seeming well pleased. ”No, Arch Censor, your gift is more than adequate. There are some defensive facilities His Lordship would like to continue to maintain, among other things, but I am sure such things can be ironed out later by our menials.”

Caractor seemed to accept the sorcerer’s suggestion without misgivings. ”Good, good. Now... Do we sign upon something, as was done when the earlier colony was established, or will this verbal agreement suffice?"

Again the wolfish smile. ”No, Arch Censor, we trust you are a creature of your word. It has been a pleasure speaking with you.”

The Arch Censor nodded his dark helm once, fire still flickering in his eyes, and then Death reached forward to shake hands with the Necromancer.

Shortly after the meeting, once again an Ermorian vessel appeared out of nowhere within Arda, this time in the Eastern Desolation within Mordor as the agreement had stated. Once it had laid its claws upon the land, countless creatures in pitch black armor flowed out of it like some horrible wave, making the ground tremble in their wake.

Anything alive within the area would be burnt with deathly fires.

Once nothing was coming out of the ship anymore, Caractor, lower Censors, several Dusk Elders and the like came out of the ship, and stopped once they reached the ground itself.

Caractor watched the surroundings, apparently deep in thought.

"Bring forth the Soulless and begin construction of the fortress," he said with his dark, twisted voice, and fell quiet for a second before continuing, "This time, we need this to be done with haste."

"Very well," uttered one of the Dusk Elders, "We shall do as you command."

Instantly after this short conversation, the Dusk Elders and those who were with them left Caractor and his underlings alone and began reciting their unholy chants, bringing forth undead Ermorians from the Underworld and commanding them to do as the Arch Censor had said.

Caractor turned to the Censors and pointed his right index finger, armored with the same pitch black power armor as he wore, at one of them.

"You."

"Yes, my lord?"

"You are to oversee this project. I have other issues to take care of. Make sure we stay in schedule while I am away."

"As you wish, my lord," answered the Censor, nodding slightly at Caractor.

"Good. Until then..."

Caractor went back to the ship, which disappeared as swiftly as it had appeared mere minutes ago.

And thus, the rebuilding of an Ermorian colony within the lands of Arda had begun.